


Delayed Gratification

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Krycek loses an arm and gets a helping hand.





	Delayed Gratification

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Delayed Gratification by Miriam

Date: 08-Jul-97

MKRA: o.k. Gossamer: o.k. ATXC: o.k.  
Disclaimer: The X-files and the characters are the property of Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended. Mulder and Krycek will be dried off and returned to their appropriate place next season.  
NC-17 for m/m sex. Mulder/Krycek slash.  
Summary: Krycek loses an arm and gets a helping hand. Tsk, tsk. Don't use your imagination. Read this. Set somewhere between *Demons* and *Gethsemane*.  
I am a virgin slash writer and hope my readers will be gentle. In other words, no flames. But I would love feedback. If you say something nice about my story I might work up to writing another. A sequel may be in the works as well, depending on what they do with the boys next season. I have enjoyed reading all the slash that's come my way and want to give something back to this wonderful community of cyberpeople who I hope to someday meet. Thanks, all, for letting me believe I'm not the only one who thinks like this :-)

\--Miriam <>

* * *

Delayed Gratification

As he got out of his car in the parking lot, having once again left his umbrella at the office, Mulder knew tonight was not going to go well. He was soaked through before he could make it to the building. He started stripping off his clothes before he'd even closed the door. He struggled to unbutton his dress shirt, wishing he could afford to just tear the damn thing off. But he ruined enough clothes in the line of duty. He still couldn't get some of the weird stains out of his best jacket. He thought of writing a letter to Procter & Gamble, but he figured they had enough trouble with the right-wing cranks who saw Satan in their corporate logo. His pants came off, along with his briefs, in one long puddled mess. He heel and toed off his socks and shoes, nearly falling down as he did so. Usually undressing was a much more graceful affair. He would sometimes pretend he was undressing *for* someone. He would dance around a bit, in his underwear, until he started to feel stupid, then he'd throw in a video and watch a professional until he came.

Mulder had long since ceased worrying about voyeurs. After all, if they were that interested in a show... it was almost flattering. He choked that thought back as he heard a faint noise. He had an audience. He peered into the dustiest corner of the room, at what could only be considered the bleacher seats, and saw Krycek's rat eyes glowing red in the dark. They were green actually, if you want to be accurate, and lashed heavily, but Mulder was color-blind and had to use his imagination either way. And he imagined those eyes, in detail, more often than was necessary. Mulder shoved that thought down as he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He stood there a moment, trying to catch his breath. Normally something stupid popped out of his mouth whenever he saw Krycek, so standing there looking for something clever to say was hopeless.

Krycek tensed, wondering at the unusually silent Mulder, then relaxed as he heard the familiar refrain, "What do you want, Krycek. Why are you here?" Mulder sounded wet and wearied, rather than angry, and Krycek took that as a good sign.

On familiar ground now, Krycek slowly pulled himself, to avoid startling Mulder into drawing a gun, and heard joints creaking as he stretched to his full six one and stepped into the light. "I need your help. I need a safe place to stay." His voice was soft, unsteady, and he looked almost as he had when Mulder first met him, young, innocent <No, never innocent. Never again> Mulder steadied his resolve. <Fool me once...>. Krycek's clothes hung loosely on his startling thin frame. And now Mulder saw that one arm of his leather jacket was empty. Mulder tried to look away, at anything but that unfilled sleeve, which caught his eye like an optical illusion, his mind filling in the missing bicep, elbow, hand, even as it told him there was nothing there, and he forced himself to stare into Krycek's eyes. There were dark smudges under his eyes and, with his long lashes ringing them, he looked like he'd been on the wrong end of a fight. He had several days worth of stubble, almost a beard, and looked exhausted. Ready to slide back into that corner. Mulder had to do something, say something to break the silence that had fallen again. "Why come here?" His voice came out sounding too thick, not angry enough.

"Because, of all the people who want me dead, you want me dead least." Mulder knew that was true, couldn't even begin to argue. He needed Krycek's information. He needed Krycek alive more than he wanted him dead. He needed... He wanted... Mulder's head rang with elliptical thoughts. He didn't want to pursue those little dots any farther than he had to. Already, he could feel his cock stirring freely, was aware of the cool air against his damp skin and gasped as he realized he had removed all his clothes and had been standing naked in front of Krycek, who had said nothing. <What did you expect, compliments?> He had been naked in front of the man before. When they were partners. No big deal. Still, he forced himself to walk casually to the dresser and pulled on a dry pair of sweatpants.

"Did you say something to tick somebody off, Alex? Did you smoke the last cigarette in the pack?" A sneer crept into Mulder's voice as he realized he had the upper hand. Krycek was desperate if he'd come here. He would torture him a bit before he said he'd hide the rat. He noted that he'd already decided to help and wondered when he stopped having a choice. Mulder reminded himself that it could still be a trap. And if it was, it was not wise to tick off Krycek.

Krycek looked down at the floor. "Look Mulder, I won't beg. Not yet. I just need a place to stay until I recover. If they find me now, I'm dead. I can't defend myself right now."

Mulder broke in, thinking of how many times he'd bruised that pretty face. "You never could."

Krycek smiled, barely. "I *let* you win before. Now..." He trailed off, pointed at his sleeve. "They took my arm," he said, his voice cracking slightly. He'd heard about what had happened. But it was still a shock to see it. Mulder noted that it was not his shooting arm. Lucky Krycek. Too lucky. But still, it was horrible. More so because of the sound of Krycek's voice as he glanced at the space where his arm once was. "I'm off balance. I don't know if it's physical or psychological, but I can't even shoot straight anymore."

Mulder suddenly couldn't resist, although a voice in the back of his brain rang an amputee joke alert "It was your jack-off hand, wasn't it. Poor baby."

Krycek blushed faintly, his skin, too pale from hiding in small dark spaces, glowed red, and Mulder was suddenly aware that at any other time, if Krycek was up to speed, that remark would have played right into his hands <Correction, hand. Just the one.> It clenched into a fist, and Krycek's knuckles whitened. Mulder suddenly remembered what that fist felt like connecting with his face, and felt his cock swell slightly.

As it was, Krycek smiled and whispered, "Well, I always said I could use a helping hand with that." His voice trailed off into silence, as if it was too much work to complete the joke. His heart didn't seem to be in it, and Mulder felt like he was talking to a shadow of the rat. At first, Mulder had been horrified at the mildly sexual banter he and Krycek fell into whenever they met. Then he realized it was unavoidable. Krycek knew it got to him, and so Mulder knew he had to participate or lose the war of words. Besides, the fact that they could speak of it, even joke about it, meant that Mulder was safe. It was obviously not going to happen. Neither of them wanted it. <Are you absolutely sure of that?> That was the point of unresolved sexual tension. It was only good as long as it lasted. <Yeah, right. And you always find what you're looking for in the last place you look.> Mulder looked at Krycek and saw no lust in his eyes, only an odd blankness, alternated with flashes of anger. He was, despite himself, beginning to feel sorry for him.

"You can stay, but I'm putting you in restraints." Mulder felt odd, warning him of that, asking him to stay put as he went for his handcuffs. Every time he heard the click of metal closing over Krycek's wrists, he felt the thrill of control, possession. This time, there was an awkward moment, standing behind him, when he realized he didn't know how to cuff him. Krycek laughed, an odd, pained sound like cloth tearing. "Cuff me to the bed, Mulder. If you want. I'm tired. Exhausted. I won't run." Krycek paused, and his forehead creased in thought. "Actually, maybe I will," Krycek said, feigning a dodge, then relaxing into Mulder's grip. "I've been feeling a little reckless lately -" again, that odd laugh that suggested nothing funny, "thinking about what it would be like to die."

<He's suicidal> Mulder's psych training kicked in and he realized how much trouble he was in. <I'm the last person to look to for encouragement. Or mental health counseling.> There was a reason Mulder went into abnormal psychology, and it wasn't because he was a people person. <He killed my father. I want him dead, don't I? Could I goad him into killing himself? Will he goad me into killing him?> Mulder knew from experience that he couldn't keep talking to him without eventually hitting him. Knew that the urge to strike was stronger than his pity and he had to get out of the room fast. He could just imagine himself, humiliated, tearing into a one-armed opponent. "Fine. I'll be in the other room. I'll see you in the morning. Yell if you need something" <what the fuck do I think this is, a hotel?> "I'll see you in the morning," he said, realizing he was lamely repeating himself. <I sound like fucking Norman Bates.>

Mulder went out to the sofa and laid down. He wasn't going to watch that video, not with Him in the other room. Even with the sound off. Mulder found he was so upset that sex didn't even seem like fun. And that was a *very* bad sign. He jumped up again and went to get a beer, wishing he had something stronger at home. He thought of offering Krycek a beer, then remembered he'd have to uncuff his drinking hand <his only hand> and decided not. If he's thirsty enough, he'll say so.

Five beers later, knowing full well he'd suffer in the morning, Mulder finally fell asleep.

*********************************************************  
* *

Krycek pressed his back against the sheets, wishing he had taken his jacket off before he was cuffed to the bed. But he was used to sleeping fully clothed, anywhere he could <in silos, even>. He laughed again and heard his own voice scraping in his ears. <Good one, Krycek> To take his mind off the silo, he pictured Mulder, naked and dripping in the doorway. He had stood there, beautiful, the one dim lamp silhouetting his body, looking for all the world like he was lit from inside. He believed, at that moment, that if he stared hard enough, he could see into Mulder, trace the way his swimmer's muscles hugged those long bones. Like those glasses they sell at the back of comics. He knew the light effects were in his head. <He's just a man. I could kill him. I could jump him now and rape him. He might even like it.> Mulder's skin, slicked with rain, that he wanted to lick off that long nose, off his neck, his chest. His stomach. His legs. Those long legs, tensed as he readies himself to fight. That was how it always was with Mulder. He had a fight or flight reflex and it was on all the time. Krycek looked down at his jeans, wishing he could open his zipper, then realizing there was no need. <Great, you finally got into Mulder's bed and you are so depressed you can't even get it up.> Normally he would slide into sleep thinking about Mulder until he came. Tonight he found his absent arm itched and he wished he had just stayed out on the street. Eventually they would have caught up to him. And then it would all be over. Why did he come to Mulder? He couldn't remember. <Yes you can. Because you'd rather die at his hand. Pitiful, but true.> But Mulder was never going to kill him. Not unless he forced him to. He sighed and closed his eyes, wishing for and dreading the morning.

*********************************************************  
* *

Mulder opened his eyes, looked at the clock, and realized he would have to call in and think up a good excuse for Scully. His brow furrowed as he tried to think past the hangover, and decided to give up. Scully would take whatever lame excuse he gave her and polish it into something Skinner would accept. <Thank god for Scully. I should tell her the truth, but she'd never understand. I don't even understand.> He called and Scully didn't argue. He couldn't tell her how long he'd be out. He promised to call her that night to talk and hung up.

First, a shower. He pulled off his t-shirt and stood up, hands holding his head on. Then he remembered Krycek. He'd need a shower too. He had been pretty grimy last night. Living on the streets was not very sanitary. <Great, I'll actually have to wash those sheets.> He couldn't remember ever having slept in the bed and realized the sheets were probably pretty dusty, anyway. He pulled his t-shirt back on again <no need to give Krycek another opportunity> and went into the bedroom.

Krycek was lying on his back, and he was still asleep. Mulder paused to study his face. He'd obviously stopped eating at some point and his cheekbones were in sharp relief. But he still defied Mulder's attempts to guess his age. He could be twenty-something, or a boyish thirty. His long lashes really were beautiful. He was beautiful. But so dangerous. Mulder found he had stepped closer to the bed and caught himself reaching to brush off a streak of dirt from Krycek's smooth forehead. Just then, Krycek's eyes opened wide. The dirt on his cheeks was streaked, almost as if... he'd been crying. Mulder stepped back in surprise, and tried to remember what had brought him here. Krycek saved him, "Hey, I could use a shower. And a shave." His voice was rough with sleep and lacked the demanding tone that usually drove Mulder into the opposite corner. Mulder silently uncuffed him and gave him room to get up. Krycek stood, drawing his arm above his head in the traditional stretch and Mulder started again at the incongruous lack of symmetry as Krycek's hand grasped at air. Krycek walked to the bathroom as if he lived there. <Of course, he's broken in so many times he probably knows where I keep the towels>. Mulder followed him into the bathroom and stood there, awkwardly.

"So, are you going to scrub my back?" Krycek's eyes brightened a bit, and Mulder almost smiled with relief. Even depressed, Krycek was still Krycek, irritating sense of humor, and all.

"No, I just can't cuff you or trust you, so I'll stand here until you're done."

Krycek shrugged awkwardly out of his heavy jacket and pulled off his once white t-shirt. Mulder tried not to look at the scarred shoulder, staring instead at Krycek's eyes again <I'm going to have to stop this, or he's going to say something smart> and noted Krycek face had a hard look that dared him to comment. Next came his jeans, which he unzipped with what looked like a mild flourish <just your imagination, Mulder. Keep breathing and he won't notice he's getting to you>. He wasn't wearing any underwear. <He isn't wearing any underwear!!!!> Mulder wished his peripheral vision was less blurry. But, Krycek was like the sun, and he couldn't stare directly without getting retinal burn <and hairy palms>. Mulder continued to examine the mildew patterns of the tile. He felt his breath catching in his throat and once again he felt the urge to slap Krycek around <Yeah, that's what you want to do, slap him around. Remind yourself of that.> Luckily, Krycek always gave him good reason to justify *that* particular desire. Krycek stepped in and turned the water on, not bothering to adjust the knobs or test the water first. The shock of cold water hit him and he gasped and quickly turned the knobs. "Cold showers, eh, Fox? Been taking them a lot?"

"Don't call me that." Mulder wondered at Krycek's quick recovery from last night. He almost sounded like himself. But less talkative and subdued somehow. He was almost likeable like this. <Likeable, except he killed your father.> Mulder wondered sometimes why he kept reminding himself of that. It used to send him into a fury against Krycek, but after the rat denied responsibility a few times, it began to lose its effect. Now, he could only summon a mild irritation at Krycek, and he sighed as he knew that he didn't really believe Alex had pulled the trigger.

Krycek summoned him from his reverie. "Hey, I wasn't kidding about my back. I can't really reach it." Mulder remembered he had one of those loofahs on a stick that Scully gave him as a joke present. God only knows what she thought he'd do with it. He thought of himself as more of a soap-on-a-rope kind of guy. He found it shoved under the towels and handed to Krycek. Before he could let go, Krycek gave a strong tug and Mulder fell forward into the tub, tangling up in the curtain and almost cracking his head on the tiles. Krycek, with his still quick reflexes, caught him by the waist and pulled him standing. But he truly was off balance, and Mulder landed hard against his body, slamming into him so that he had to shoot out his arm to keep from falling. They stood there, Mulder leaning into Krycek, Krycek leaning into the tile wall, both of them stunned. Krycek had done it instinctively, thinking of escape, thinking of a fantasy he had once, when he had two arms and a lot more energy, and now that it had happened, he didn't really know what he would do next. His depression still hadn't lifted. His desire for Mulder's body was still there, but it was muted, a fantasy that he couldn't physically respond to. But he couldn't tell if Mulder knew that. Mulder's eyes had grown wide and for a brief second Krycek prepared to receive a fist. <He thinks I'm going to rape him.> But if that was the case, why did Mulder just stand there, his clothes getting soaked. <Did he want it?> He seemed frozen with indecision. He began to seriously wonder about Mulder's mental health. The irony that Mulder was finally, after all he'd been put through <by me, can't just use a passive construction to avoid guilt> just as screwed up as he was struck him as both sad and funny. Funny won out, and he laughed again, and this time, he was surprised that it sounded almost normal, almost happy.

Mulder felt the water pour down his back and knew he was lost. He thought at first that Krycek had changed his mind, that he was going to attempt escape. Of course, he would have to dry himself and get dressed first. That would take time. <He'll have to knock me out.> Then, when he made no move, it was obvious that Krycek was not going to knock him unconscious. Mulder was relieved, but confused. <Why am I standing here, fully clothed, in the shower? And why am I waiting to see if Krycek attacks me, as if I am powerless to prevent it? Why am I still leaning against his chest?> That chest was smooth, the hair on it slicked down with water and soap. His pectoral muscles were slightly uneven, like most women's breasts. Mulder was aware that he had taken on a fatalistic attitude. He wondered if depression was contagious. Krycek's lassitude had influenced his mood. He waited for Krycek's next move and knew that it was unfair to absolve himself, burdening the suicidal rat with that responsibility. <On the other hand, serves him right for coming here and asking for my help.>

Suddenly Krycek laughed, a real laugh, and Mulder frowned in response. Krycek saw his frown, the lower lip pushed out so that it became a wet pout, and the laugh deepened. Mulder could feel Krycek's breathing in and out as he gasped deep lungfulls of air between laughs that shook them both. Mulder pulled away from him and blurted out, "What's so damned funny, Krycek?" and that set off another round of high-pitched giggles. Finally, Krycek quieted enough to talk again. And Mulder instantly regretted it. "Well, Fox, are you just going to stand there rinsing your sweats, or are you going to take a proper shower?"

He was trapped. Krycek had asked an unanswerable question. If he stepped out of the shower now, he would look very stupid (considering he'd already been naked and wet once in Krycek's presence) and would look even sillier when he came back to take his own shower. He was here to watch Krycek, after all. He had to stay. Was he going to stand in the bathroom dripping? If he stayed, to spite Krycek and prove he didn't fear him, he would have to remove his clothing. He wasn't going to stand outside the shower in wet sweats. He wasn't willing to think about what there was to fear, and, although Mulder knew there was a way out of this, he knew just as certainly that he would never think of it in time without getting lost in the labyrinth of his overly thought out rationalizations. They'd showered together countless times in the FBI gymnasium. Shrugging, Mulder pulled his sweatpants off. Then he removed his shirt. As he pulled the shirt over his head, he closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer that Krycek would be abducted by aliens. <I want to believe.> He opened his eyes and Krycek was still there, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Krycek surprised him by not touching him, beyond handing him the bar of soap. He unself-consciously turned away from Mulder and shampooed his hair, which had, Mulder noticed for the first time, grown longer than was allowed in the FBI, and had been trimmed unevenly, probably by Krycek himself. <Better than his stupid assed g-man haircut.> Mulder watched him closely for a minute, but when Krycek rinsed and then put conditioner in his hair, Mulder relaxed a bit and began to soap himself, grabbing his washcloth and washing himself so quickly that his skin burned where he dragged the cloth over it too fast. Krycek poured shampoo onto the loofah and scrubbed all the dirt off his body. Next, he began to shave in the shower, using the shampoo as shaving cream. He apparently had nerveless skin. He had perfect control, and the razor seemed to glide magically over the soapy skin. Mulder was envious of Krycek's skill with a razor, but he knew that skill came from long practice on other men's throats. Krycek was careful to avoid touching Mulder. When he was done, he stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and walked out of the bathroom without a word or a look back.

Mulder stepped into the spray and felt oddly empty. What had he expected would happen? <In that dream, we have sex in the shower. But in that dream he has two arms, and you know that he's as likely to grow an arm as you are to have sex with him>. Mulder shook his head. He would get dressed, find out what Krycek would tell him about the Consortium, the DAT tape, and little green men, in exchange for shelter. And if it wasn't enough, he'd throw him out. Just then Mulder remembered that he hadn't cuffed Krycek, and he could be out the door by now. Watching Krycek was how he justified showering with him. <Dammit> Grabbing a towel, he raced out of the bathroom to find Krycek awkwardly dressed in Mulder's jeans, ones he recognized as relaxed fit, but which were skin tight on Krycek's larger frame and t- shirt, looking in the fridge.

"Fox, do you have any orange juice?" he asked, not turning around.

Mulder gritted his teeth at the question. "Do not, under any circumstances, call me that. You'll get orange juice *after* you answer every one of my questions. It'll be your reward. That, and I won't throw your ass out."

Krycek turned abruptly, the fridge door thumping closed behind him. He knew Mulder over-rated his secrets, believed he was more important to the organization than he was. He was going to throw him out when he found out just how appropriate his nickname was. <And I was starting to feel alive again.> His heart was pounding and he heard a ringing in his ears that was the beginning of a panic attack. He hadn't had one since the silo. No, he had one right after he first realized that it was his arm, dismembered on the ground beside him. But that time he mercifully passed out before he could hyperventilate. Now, he felt tears sting his eyes and the edges of his vision blurred. Mulder was at the end of a long dark tunnel, his mouth open, saying something, his name maybe, his soft beautiful lips opening and closing like a goldfish. Then he was gone.

Mulder saw Krycek's look of panic, his eyes that were wet and dilated. Then, before he could get there, Krycek was on the floor, passed out. He wasn't sure Krycek didn't have a medical condition. He thought of calling Scully. Then he checked Krycek's pulse and breathing. They were normal. Mulder, leaning over Krycek's face, shook his wet hair so that drops fell on Krycek's eyes and mouth. There were two small nicks on his jaw, by his right ear, and Mulder found them reassuring. He was not perfect and not invincible. Krycek's eyes fluttered open and he stared up at Mulder, who now held his head in his toweled lap.

Mulder waited for Krycek to speak, not wanting to embarrass the other man with questions. Krycek sat up, too quickly, and then sank back down. He stayed there, breathing quietly, for long enough that Mulder's thighs began to go numb. Then he slowly rose to his feet and walked past Mulder to sit on the sofa. Mulder walked over to him and sat beside him. He reached out and his fingers lightly brushed Krycek's arm. Krycek pulled his arm away as he stood abruptly and walked to the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him, leaving Mulder wondering what had just happened. Obviously, he had overestimated Krycek's recovery. He'd just fainted in Mulder's kitchen and was now hiding in his bedroom. Mulder thought of knocking, demanding that Krycek come out and face him. After all, he was supposed to be in custody. <My prisoner.> But maybe Krycek just needed some time. He yelled at the door, "I'm going out. To get orange juice. Don't leave." Then, as an afterthought, "I'm not going to throw you out. I don't want you to leave. Please." He didn't know why he said please. <Please stay? Please don't be mad at me? Please don't kill yourself? Please talk to me?> Krycek was definitely suffering from depression. And there was no doubt he was off balance. More so than usual. He wasn't sure he even wanted to talk to Krycek. There was no answer, and just in case Krycek was passed out on the other side of the door, Mulder scribbled a brief note and taped it to the tv, then pulled on some clothes and went out to his car. To get orange juice. <This *is* a fucking hotel. And I'm the help. And I just invited Krycek to stay for as long as he likes.>

*********************************************************  
* *

Half an hour later, Mulder returned with the orange juice, ground coffee and muffins, the high fat variety. <Krycek is looking unnaturally skinny.> He started the coffee and then knocked again on Krycek's door <My door, dammit. Even if I don't sleep in there>. "Krycek. I brought food. And orange juice. Come on out or I'm coming in after you." Mulder knew this was not the most diplomatic way to coax someone out of depression. Or to begin interrogating a prisoner. But he was not going to be Krycek's therapist. And he could hardly consider any of this official FBI business.

The door opened and Krycek shuffled out, eyes down, and headed toward the sofa, where he sat down heavily. Mulder brought them two cups of coffee, and orange juice, holding the juice out so Krycek had to take it from his hand. Their fingers brushed and Mulder noted that Krycek's nails were dangerously long. Krycek waited for Mulder to speak. He sipped his juice and then put it down, spilling some on Mulder's already sticky coffee table. When the silence became unbearable, Krycek gave up and began to talk in a slow, deadened voice that sometimes got so quiet, Mulder had to lean in to hear him.

"I didn't kill your father. I know you don't believe that, so it shouldn't matter. I'm not sure why it happened. I don't know what Cancerman's game is. I'm a bit player. Just assigned to watch you. Like Scully was, but for Them. And I did other things on the side. Some bad things. I'll answer your questions and I'll tell you everything, because I think I'm finally out of the game now. I didn't mean it when I said I wanted to die. I don't think I want to die. I just want to stop running." His face was reddening and he was digging those long nails into his palm and was obviously unaware that he was drawing blood. "I'm sorry I fainted. I panicked because nothing I tell you is ever going to be enough to bring back Samantha. You can see I'm no good to the organization anymore. I've lost my nerve. I'm not a rat anymore, Fox." He paused and took a deep breath, "I'm a mouse." Krycek looked up at Mulder through those long lashes, now darkened with unshed tears and Mulder couldn't bring himself to object to the use of his first name. He knew that Krycek didn't have any power anymore. Even when he'd said Samantha's name, it was apologetic. Not taunting. So it didn't mean anything. <The fox and the mouse. How very Aesop of Krycek.>

Mulder got up, momentarily amused at the image of Krycek running on a hamster treadmill, and brought back two muffins from the kitchen. "Krycek, what do you want from me? A new life? The Witness Protection Program?"

Krycek grabbed the muffin and put it in his lap. He started picking at it, looking thoughtful. A few minutes passed, and Mulder thought of repeating the question. Finally, Krycek spoke, "I don't know. I don't know how you quit doing what I do. I don't think anyone ever quits. They just die. Like X. Or your father." A tear ran down from the corner of his eye and he wiped it absently and went back to his muffin. Mulder noted that he hadn't really eaten any of it, but he was making a fine mess on the sofa with the muffin crumbs. His jeans were also covered, and Mulder knew that when he stood, it would all be over the floor. Mulder had never been much of a domestic, but he became one now, bustling in the kitchen for a plate, a paper towel, coming back to the sofa and tidying up around Krycek. Krycek moved his hand, lifted his feet, tried to be helpful, but only succeeding at spreading the crumbs over the widest possible area. Finally, Mulder ordered him to stand up and step aside. He walked to the window as Mulder continued wiping the floor, even bothering to lift the cushions. Mulder knew he was in denial now, completely unable to relate to the man in his apartment who seemed to steadfastly resist pushing his buttons. What did you do with a tame rat? Keep him as a pet? Mulder was too familiar with him to believe this depression made him a mouse. Krycek would never be a mouse. He just needed time to lick his wounds and he'd be back, dangerous as ever. And Mulder knew that it wasn't really safe to keep him here. But he was going to do so anyway.

He'd called in sick, so they had a whole interminable day together. Mulder had no idea what they were going to do. They'd spent time together, but it had always been on the run, with one of them chasing the other, one of them tied up. Mulder wondered if he should recuff Krycek. He didn't look like a flight risk, but if he even started to feel better, he'd probably be out before Mulder could stop him.

"Krycek."

He turned from the window. "Call me Alex?" His voice was muffled.

"Fine. Alex. And you can call me Mulder." Mulder knew he never would. Krycek, Alex, was the only one to ever call him Fox, and he kind of enjoyed it, although he hated the name. Krycek <Alex, Alex, Alex> managed to say it, most of the time, without making it sound cheap.

"Alright, Fox. So, lets begin our little interrogation and get it over with." Alex felt more in control, more confident that Mulder was on his side. They would sit and Mulder would ask his questions and Alex would give him answers and that would probably take several hours, at least, given how difficult it was to concisely summarize an XFile or a conspiracy.

*********************************************************  
* *

Several hours later, Mulder looked out the window and realized that sundown was fast approaching and they'd had nothing to eat but muffins all day. Mulder had known, ever since the fish died, that he couldn't be responsible for keeping anyone but himself fed and living. Much less a pet rat. Alex's throat was obviously sore from talking for so long, but he hadn't asked to stop, or for a drink. And Mulder hadn't thought beyond the next question he would ask. He was, as Alex had expected, disappointed by the answers. Most of them confirmed his own suspicions, but without proof. Alex admitted to a few misdeeds. And he didn't try to explain away his involvement in Scully's abduction. He denied shooting her sister, but Mulder had never been convinced he'd done it. If Alex had anything, he was very good at concealing it. He could try again tomorrow and see if Alex thought of anything new. It was past time to break for dinner. Then maybe they'd play checkers. Not chess. Whatever Alex's relation to Mother Russia, he was pretty sure he could humiliate him with chess, eidetic memory or not. Or they could watch a video <something safe. *Aladdin*, maybe.> Mulder suddenly had visions of Alex as Scherazade, telling story after story so that he, the king, wouldn't cut off her head. <And maybe Alex could do a little belly dance before bed.> It was definitely time for a break. He was getting slap-happy from spending the whole day indoors with Alex and *not* slapping him.

It wasn't safe to go out. It probably wasn't even safe to stay in, since his apartment was far from secure. But although he was paranoid, he'd learned to set limits on that paranoia. Some places he just had to assume were safe, or he'd never relax enough to sleep. He never bothered to lock the front door, as it didn't seem to keep countless people from breaking in. So the apartment was safe. Sort of. And they'd order Chinese, because he was not going discuss pizza toppings with Alex. <He probably likes anchovies.> When the food arrived, Mulder laid it out and realized that it was probably too much food. But Chinese food keeps. Sometimes it was good a week after you ordered it, if you were careful not to look too closely at it. Mulder believed in the power of the microwave to kill all things growing and green. Broccoli, spinach, and mold.

Alex, who had only picked at the muffins, found he was starving. He'd lived on the streets long enough to not care much for manners, and shoveled the lo mein in as fast as he could swallow. Mulder watched in fascination as the food disappeared. When Alex came up for air, he had dribbled duck sauce down his chin and spattered his t-shirt with soy sauce. Confession was obviously good for the soul and the appetite. Alex grinned at him and grabbed his free ginger ale, gulping it down in several swallows and belching loudly. Mulder was willing to change his diagnosis from depressive to bipolar. But it was an improvement, even if he had to watch Alex a bit more closely when he was energetic.

Alex caught him staring at his chin. He tongue darted out to touch his bottom lip, tasting the sweet sauce. "Want to lick it off?" He fluttered his lashes, and tried not to smile. <It really wasn't fair to do this to Mulder. Not after how nice he's been. Feeding me and clothing me. Practically bathing me>. Alex was imagining what Mulder's tongue would feel like, licking his chin like a large cat, when he thought he heard Mulder say, "Would you let me if I did?" But he'd obviously misheard. Better check. 

"What did you say?"

Mulder didn't give himself a chance to revise his question. He repeated. Clarified. "Would you let me lick your chin *if* I wanted to?"

Alex told himself Mulder was just playing with him. Trying to see how far he could go. It didn't mean anything. There was an unspoken agreement between them that nothing was going to happen. He remembered Mulder, sitting at the computer, leaning back in his chair, when they were partners, leaning his head on Alex's chest. Alex had held his breath and didn't comment on it then, just filed it away to think about. Now, he wondered if he wanted to break that agreement. Could anything be better than the way the air bristled between them when they were together? Then Alex realized that he'd said he was giving the game up. For good. There would never be another opportunity for this. He would either have to take Mulder up on the WPP or go underground. Or get back into the game. That was still a possibility. But they might never again be partners, the hunter and the hunted. <But that's no reason to say the hell with it. Mulder might be straight. Unlikely... But maybe. Maybe this thing they had was just a way for Mulder to experiment with something he didn't really want. But then why did he ask permission? Was that what he'd done? Then he was waiting for an answer.> Alex said "Yes."

To Mulder, it sounded like Alex had gasped for air. Or maybe hissed. Either way, he was going to assume it was a "Yes" and take his chances. After all, if he touched him, and he was mistaken, there'd probably be a fight of some sort and he'd finally know where he stood. Probably, flat on his back with bruised ribs. But he was willing to risk that. He hadn't even tried the duck sauce. 

Mulder was up and out of his chair before he could change his mind. He leaned over Alex, gently tipping his chin upward and tentatively, gently, darted his tongue out and licked the sauce off Alex's face. It was far more intimate than a kiss, and Alex's eyes had gone wide, so that he looked even more like an innocent child who had provoked no-one. Alex heard a ringing in his ears and worried that he was going to faint again. Then Mulder jerked his head up and Alex realized he'd heard it too.

Mulder swore and reached into his jacket which he'd hung over the back of the sofa. It was Scully. Checking to see if he felt all right. Aside from the weakness in his knees and the fact that his heart had skipped at least three beats, he felt fine. Better than fine. Would he be in tomorrow? Mulder knew that he had vacation time building up and Skinner would probably love to have him out of his hair, what hair there was. And Scully could probably use a few weeks of not feeling torn between his quest for windmills (as she'd once characterized it) and her own illness. He had decided. As of yesterday, he was taking a two week vacation. He lied, feeling only a little guilty, and told Scully that he was suffering from exhaustion and needed some time to think. After that incident with the hole in his head, he didn't have to do much to convince her. She thought he had lost his mind with that one, but he'd been on to something. But there were other ways to get into his own head. There had to be. Many times he had cursed his eidetic memory, that could remember every line he'd read, catalogue every expression of triumph on Alex's face, and yet remember almost nothing of the most important day of his life. He knew he was like the woman who painted the same house over and over, trying to produce a picture with a working door. He also knew that the clock was ticking on Scully's cancer, but maybe, if this thing with Alex worked out, he would have some help getting to Cancerman. She promised to talk to Skinner and he agreed to fill out the paperwork later in the week.

The whole conversation had taken less than ten minutes, and Alex found himself wondering what would happen when Mulder got off the phone. Maybe they would pretend nothing had happened. His life was like that, with reality determined largely by what you admitted to. Reality was flexible, and he had learned to grow flexible with it. But he realized that, since losing his arm, he'd lost some of that give, and with it, his edge. He relied on Mulder precisely because the man had an inflexible dedication to the truth, and an almost religious belief that there was another Reality that was beyond any group's control. But this might be too much for him. The touch of Mulder's tongue was already tinged with the pleasant fuzziness of a good dream, and Alex knew he would do whatever Mulder wanted, even if that meant leaving him and never looking back. He would take that dream with him.

Mulder hung up the phone and turned around. He'd purposefully turned his back to Alex, so he could concentrate on what Scully was saying. But now he had to face Alex again. They'd both had some time to cool off and that worried Mulder. The phone rang before Alex had time to respond to him and he still didn't know if he'd done the right thing. Had Alex been about to hit him or kiss him, just now? Was there really a difference or did the two actions mean the same thing, substituting for each other in a perverse expression of desire? But touching Alex had felt too good to stop and decide.

He sat back down, this time next to Alex so that he was very definitely invading Alex's personal space. Alex didn't shift away, and Mulder took that as a sign. Mulder reached out with his right hand and touched Alex's face again, running his fingers down his jaw line, then down his neck. He brought his other hand to rest on Alex's thigh. The air had the unnatural quiet that warned of an impending storm. Even his refrigerator had ceased humming. He began to move his hand up and down Alex's thigh, stopping at his knee and working back to the tight crease of his jeans. Back and forth and Alex was remarkably passive. He lowered the hand that had been exploring Alex's face, softly tracing the contours of his forehead, gliding over the dark brows, lightly teasing the long lashes as Alex closed his eyes. Now he touched Alex's ears, tucking stray strands of brown hairs back, then resting on the back of Alex's neck in a possessive, but still light grip.

Alex felt mild alarm at that hand, closing over the sensitive skin at the back of his neck. He resisted the urge to pull away by leaning back into that hand, until he was leaning his head back, exposing his throat and crushing Mulder's hand against the back of the sofa. Mulder leaned in and exhaled onto his neck, the warm air making him uncomfortably aware of just how close they were and how unsteady was his own breathing. He was feeling light headed with desire and a good dose of fear. He thought of those old vampire movies where the helpless maiden fainted as the monster sucked her dry. He was no maiden, but felt nervous as a virgin, as if he'd forgotten how sex worked. And they were definitely having sex now, there was no doubt in his mind they were past lewd teasing.

Mulder leaned in, finally, to kiss Alex. But their noses bumped awkwardly, and Alex, unable to take the strain of the situation, giggled. This time Mulder didn't ask what was funny. He knew it was his own awkwardness, and he feared it would only get worse. Alex was going to laugh at him. He'd never gotten as far as sleeping with a man. Always, in England, they'd stopped at foreplay, though he knew other guys who'd gone farther. Maybe he'd seemed repressed then, too. But no one had ever pressed him the way Alex did now, losing his passivity and sitting up to try that kiss again.

Alex started by wetly kissing the nose that took up so much of his face. Alex loved that nose, planting more kisses down its length, until he got to the full lips. He nibbled experimentally on the lower lip, licked it until he'd applied a fine gloss to Mulder's lips and then pressed his mouth hard against them, blotting the moisture. It was getting awkward again, as Alex wanted to push Mulder back onto the sofa, but he was always a good judge of his own strength, and he knew that he couldn't support himself with one arm over Mulder. Besides, he only had one arm to do the things to Mulder he'd only dreamed of.

Mulder noticed Alex had paused and his expression was intent, worried. Had he changed his mind?

"Fox," his voice came out more pleading than he'd intended. "We have to go to the bedroom. I can't..." He pointed to his side, to the space of his missing arm and let his voice trail off, hoping Mulder would understand his dilemma without spelling it out for him. He didn't want to lay there and have Mulder do everything. With a little more room, he could work something out. His experience did not really prepare him for this. Nor could physical therapy, had he had time for it. It was hard to perform familiar tasks like dialing a rotary phone with one hand, but sex was going to be infinitely more difficult.

Mulder thought he understood and stood up, offering Alex his hand. On the sofa, groping Alex, he could maintain the illusion of being swept away. But moving to the bedroom, that was an intentional act and he had to admit to himself that he was in control. Then he remembered the sheets. He hadn't changed them yet. And, while he'd had no qualms about having Alex sleeping on those dusty sheets last night, tonight he wanted everything perfect. They would have to change the sheets. He pulled the sheets off in one movement, throwing the pillows to the floor and went into the bathroom, hoping he actually had a second set of sheets. Thanks to his mother's disbelief in his ability to keep house, he did have another set, still wrapped in its original package. He ripped them open, and shook them out, then proceeded to make the bed.

Alex stood in the doorway, amazed. He was grateful for time to think, to plan what he would do next, but the sight of Mulder, partially obscured by billowing blue sheets, was a distraction. This was taking far longer than any sexual encounter he'd ever had, and there had been many. He didn't think of himself as a slut, exactly, but he had taken advantage of his body's abilities and considered it one more tool in his arsenal. Now, with it permanently damaged, he knew he'd never be able to count on it for a meal or a roof over his head. He still had his shirt on, but he worried that Mulder, even having seen him in the shower, would balk at touching him. He didn't even like touching the scars, but he found himself, at night, stroking damaged skin, wondering what it would feel like to a lover. Too much time to think was not good for his libido. He knew that the depression that had plagued him for days had finally lifted. But whether his impotence was really gone, whether he could get past the nervousness that threatened him with dysfunction... He tried to suppress that thought. Somehow, in the days of his rampaging fantasies about Mulder, he thought it would all go smoothly, quickly, like a fire in an enclosed space that burns brightly and then exhausts itself, burning away the oxygen that fueled it. Instead, he felt like the last few hours he'd been burning embers. Charcoal, already white and ready, but crumbling at a touch. He needed something. Water. His mouth was dry from anticipation, and he could feel sweat tracking down the back of his t-shirt and wetting his hairline. He slipped into the bathroom, turned on the faucet and leaned into it, slurping the water greedily. He let the water run down his chin, soak the front of his shirt.

Mulder finished at his task and looked over the bed, at its neat corners and smooth surface, with satisfaction. He turned toward Alex, only to find him missing. He panicked, for a moment. Then heard the water running in the bathroom. Alex would come back in a minute and he wanted to be sure he was prepared, as he didn't think he could stand any more delays. What did one need for something like this? He didn't quite know what was involved, despite having studied several explicit videos on the subject. The videos had been surreal, experiments in placing body parts in place they couldn't possibly go. Like that movie where the one man enters the other's body in a small spaceship, injected into his bloodstream. Lubricant. He knew he needed that, and pulled some from his night table. Condoms. He had some in his wallet. He justified the juvenile habit by reminding himself that he was frequently on the road. But the same two condoms, with the horrible label "Love Gasket," remained in their wrappers. He examined the wrappers, looking for an expiration date, which now even beer had. They were undated, and apparently would be good one hundred years from now. The miracle of modern rubber. His head began to ache, as it did sometimes when he felt stress. Probably the hole in his head did more harm than good. But one issue of *Ripley's Believe It or Not* had a story about a Chinese mystic with a hole in his head that he plugged with a lit candle. He sometimes wondered if it was those comics, as much as Samantha, that had led him to the XFiles. 

Mulder looked up and Alex had returned at last. They were several feet apart, and kept an equal distance from the bed. Alex gathered his nerves and made the first move. He pulled his shirt over his head, trying to feign indifference, and wondered at how much more easily he'd accomplished undressing that same morning. He jumped onto the bed, testing the springs. And, Mulder noted, pulling up one corner of the top sheet in his enthusiasm. This had gone on far too long, if he was worrying about the sheet when he had Alex, half-naked, in his bed.

Mulder pulled his own shirt off, grateful that he'd gone for a t-shirt that morning instead of his annoyingly hard to undo button downs. He crawled onto the bed, moving to the dead center of the bed, where the mattress sagged slightly. Alex pulled himself to where Mulder lay on his back and swung his leg over Mulder's thighs, straddling him. It was petty, but he wanted desperately to regain some of the advantage he'd always had in the past, when he made Mulder nervous just by the sound of his voice. Mulder was obviously nervous now, but it was from the situation. Not because he had Alex, the unpredictable rat, in his bed. Alex thought back to what it had felt like to be slammed up against the wall in the airport, Mulder's body pressed close to his. He looked into those eyes that had accused him of so many crimes and felt a thrill run down his spine. He felt the tingle work its way down and settle between his legs. He would have to get out of these jeans, before he hurt himself. He had purposefully chosen Mulder's too-tight jeans, instead of one of his many pair of sweatpants, both for the irony of getting in Mulder's pants, finally, and because he felt more confident when he was in tight jeans. It increased his awareness of his own body, heightened his skin's sensitivity as the rough fabric rubbed against his ass, the seam sliding between his ass cheeks as he moved. He even loved the way the jeans constricted his breathing to short gasps and pants. Maybe he could tie Mulder up. Worry him a little. The handcuff still dangled from the headboard and Alex grinned, and he knew he looked like himself again, fierce and predatory. How careless of Fox.

Mulder, on his back, had already decided he would let Alex lead. It would be easier to cover his own inexperience if he only had to react. And when Alex sat down on him, he decided it was the right choice. He felt the blood drain from his head, settle into his cock. His memory failed him, and he hoped Alex had a plan, because he was not going to last long with Alex's weight resting where it was. He closed his eyes, willing his attention to some other part of his anatomy. Then he heard a click and felt cold metal circling his right wrist. He hadn't even noticed Alex pulling that arm over his head and now he was caught. He opened his eyes and pulled his arm away from the headboard, hoping he was wrong. He'd left the cuff there, and now he was angry. He felt the growl build in his throat and surprised himself by how rough his voice sounded, carefully enunciating every word. "Krycek. Get that off me right now. I mean it."

Alex was smiling, wickedly. This was good. Far better than he expected. Mulder was already angry, fuming, the sparks flying out of his brown eyes. He had even used his last name again. Definitely, he was losing control. And that was good, because Alex liked to be in control. The room was getting dark, and he leaned over, careful not to give Mulder too much freedom, and turned on the bedside lamp. He wanted to see him tonight.

For a moment, Mulder forgot why he was on his back, the sensation of being trapped resurrecting his old fear of Krycek, which he'd always hoped was hidden behind a wall of blinding anger. But he suspected that the man knew he was afraid and used it to get to him. He looked up and saw the smiling man above him. His body ran through a number of moves to throw the man off him. Even thinner, Krycek was still a larger man. It was in the way he moved, cat-graceful, but confidently taking up space, his chest spreading wide with each intake of breath. Mulder suddenly wanted to slap that smile off his face, but his other hand was pinned under Krycek's firm grip. He'd had a moment, when Krycek had turned on the lamp, but was too surprised to use it. Now, he had only his legs. He bucked up, throwing his pelvis upward hard against Krycek. Alex laughed, surprised and pleased. Poor Mulder would never break free. Then he saw the fatal flaw in his plan. As long as he held down Mulder's other arm, he couldn't use his own arm to touch the man. He would have to let go, or there would be no satisfaction for either of them, other then the thrill of the struggle. His smile returned as he recovered the advantage. Without warning, he threw himself down, on top of Mulder, locking his legs around Mulder's and using his upper body to pin the man down. He still gripped Mulder's wrist, but forced his arm down, guiding it until it was at their side.

Mulder felt the air rush out of him as Krycek's full weight slammed into his body. He struggled, trying to find room to breathe. He was going to pass out. But his body, trained through long hours of swimming, solved the problem for him. He felt his muscles relax and suddenly there was room for him under Krycek, as his body pressed down into the mattress. He breathed deeply. Then Krycek was moving his arm down, pinning it at his side. He remembered, only minutes before, thinking that he wanted Krycek to lead. Why had he thought that? The reason became clear as he stopped struggling and his senses filled with Krycek's body, so close now. The man on top of him was warm, and their skin was stuck together with sweat. His mind had forgotten that this was sex, but he realized that his body never had. He was still hard, painfully so, and the adrenaline rushing through his veins was making him tremble. He looked up at his opponent, whose cheeks were flushed, his long hair sticking to his forehead. "Alex." He pressed up, lifting his head until he could reach him. Mulder kissed him deeply, noticing that the grip on his wrist was easing just enough. He struck, pulling his hand free and bringing it down hard on Alex's ass.

Alex gasped into his kiss. The hand didn't leave his backside, but instead began to massage him, soothing the sting. Then the hand squeezed between them, and Alex arched away from Mulder so he could access his zipper. Mulder fumbled a moment with the button, then unzipped Alex's jeans, peeling them away from his hips. Alex took over, working the jeans down his legs, shimmying over Mulder until he could kick the jeans off. Then he unzipped a very cooperative Mulder, their two hands, working in concert, to shed Mulder's jeans to the floor. It would have gone more quickly if he unlocked Mulder's cuff, but he liked the relative equality it lent them, and it conformed to a few of his more violent fantasies, so he left him locked down. 

They continued to kiss, parting as necessary, until they were both naked. Mulder's underwear had stuck close to his jeans, both coming off conveniently together. He felt a wave of something, fear, passion, he couldn't tell anymore, pass over him as he realized what was about to happen. Alex didn't give him time to get used to the feel of their bodies pressed together before he leapt downward, taking Mulder into his mouth. Mulder had done this before, but it was different, knowing it was the beautiful rat going down on him. It was perfect and over too quickly. Alex, sensing Mulder was close to coming, pulled off him and kissed the top of each thigh. He continued kissing and licking, wetting the spot where Mulder's leg joined his hip, then working down the tender inside of his leg, moving from one to the other. Mulder loved and hated the way the air cooled his skin, raising goosebumps and mildly irritating him. He tried to sit up, to grab the head that bobbed downward, but was jerked back by the cuff. Before he could get too annoyed, the head was working its way back, and Mulder grabbed at it, pulling hard on Alex's hair, so that he was forced to raise his head and look at Mulder.

Mulder had a pained expression and Alex almost pitied him. He crawled up and kissed the frown lines from Mulder's forehead, kissed his nose again, and then gently nipped at his collarbone. Then he kissed Mulder's beautiful, muscled shoulders, running his hands over the unmarred skin. He was congratulating himself on his control. Despite his earlier aggression, he didn't really want to scare Mulder too much. He wanted him to trust him. Without that trust, he wouldn't really control Mulder.

Mulder startled him by mimicking his movements, raising his hand to Alex's shoulder and gently tracing the scars. Moving from the whole shoulder and upper arm to the other, comparing them, but always looking at Alex's face. Mulder had actually been worried that he would have a problem with that shoulder. Unlike Scully, he was uncomfortable with bodies, focusing on the disfigured mind being preferable to the mess that was skin and bones. But this wasn't a specimen. This was Alex, and he knew that he had to confront the fact that touching that shoulder was more taboo than grasping the other man's cock. He surprised himself by finding both to be arousing. They were both Alex and he wanted him badly. He pulled Alex close enough that he could kiss him, kiss his ear and down the slope of his neck. He reached the shoulder and it was like going over a cliff.

Mulder's lips brushing along the bundle of nerves left at the stub that was his arm was almost too intense. Alex grabbed Mulder's cock and squeezed, then, wanting to overwhelm Mulder as he was. While Mulder was distracted, he grabbed the lubricant, thankful that it had a flip-top. He squeezed some onto his fingers and quickly brought that finger to Mulder's ass. He glided his finger along the slope of Mulder's cheeks and pressed against the tight ring of muscle. Mulder was relaxed and let him in. Not wanting to push his luck, but increasingly needing to finish, he plunged a second finger in, hoping Mulder would keep him from hurting him. They hadn't had time to come up with anything as civilized as a safe word. But he knew Mulder pretty well out of bed, and was pretty sure that Mulder liked it when he was a little rough. He looked at Mulder, trying to gauge his expression. Mulder's eyes were closed. He whispered, "Fox," and Mulder opened his eyes and nodded.

Mulder hoped the nod was enough to tell Alex he was okay. He didn't think, at that moment, with Alex's fingers in him, that he could think of the right words to express himself. Those fingers that began to move in and out of him. "Damn," his voice was loud and unusually high pitched. Alex's finger had pressed upward into what he thought might be his prostate. Alex took that as a guide to continue. He had to remove his fingers to squeeze out more lubricant, coating his hand, then his own cock. He didn't want to hurt Mulder, much. And he knew that once he was inside, he would not be able to stop himself. To get back some control, and to further relax Mulder, he went back down to Mulder's cock, kissing the slick mushroom head. He ran his tongue along the edge of the sensitive, thin skin. Mulder was flushed red and Alex noticed a vein, running down from his navel to his pubic hair, that seemed to pulse in time to his own heart-rate. It was time, he could see Mulder's balls pulling upward. He grasped them, pulling them down with his fingers circling closed around the damp skin. Not yet. He needed Mulder's cooperation now, and said his name again. "Fox." The eyes opened. "Fox, pull your legs up." Mulder looked momentarily confused, as if a new song had come on and he didn't know the steps. Alex felt a smile tugging at his mouth and suppressed it. The last thing he wanted was for Mulder to get embarrassed now. He pulled one of the pillows toward Mulder's ass and instructed him "Up." He slid the pillow under Mulder's hips. "Good. Now put your legs on my shoulders. Keep them there, I won't be able to." He realized this might have been easier had Mulder been on his front, but it was too late. He was where he was and they could try it on his front later. Mulder had taken a week off and he found he was counting on a later, although he didn't know what that might mean for them. Alex pulled himself back to the present and drew one finger back into Mulder, to warn him. Then, he pushed his own cock up and pressed.

Mulder thought he heard a popping sound, which could have been his head exploding. This was not what he expected. Before he could gather his second thoughts in order, it was too late, and Alex was inside him. The pain was intense and quick, but faded to a burning sensation that brought with it the urge to bear down on Alex's cock. This had gone too far and no matter what he did, no matter where Alex's loyalties lay, this was always going to be there. What if Alex got up now and left him? What if this was part of some grand plan that Alex concocted from the beginning, a plan that started when Mulder saw him, crouched in the corner like some predatory animal? Mulder's mind thrived on conspiracies, but even he had a hard time working out why Alex would lose an arm to get him into bed. None of that time, in Russia, had made sense to him, and this compounded the problem. He was hampered by an inability to think clearly, as Alex's thrusting increased and he felt Alex's lubed hand grasping his cock, then running up and down it with each thrust. Then he felt himself coming. It was not like it was when he was alone, on the sofa, taking himself in hand. He felt the orgasm snap some threads in his mind, reconnecting areas of his brain that didn't ever before communicate. It was synesthesia. The mixing of the scent of sweat and sex with the sensation of Alex's skin slapping down against his and he felt like he could taste himself coming, a salty, coppery taste. He would realize later that he'd bit his lip, but now the pressure in his legs and cock could only be described as a burning, blinding white. It was edged with a silvery light and sharp. Then, it was over. In this haze, he heard Alex, who cried out "Love you," then "Fox" the name hissed between clenched teeth. 

Alex fell forward onto Mulder, hoping that he moved his legs in time. His legs were rubbery and what he'd just yelled out was echoing back to his ears. He hadn't meant to say that, or anything. He'd been gritting his teeth until his jaw hurt, precisely so he wouldn't say anything at all. It was too much. His head was resting against Mulder's chest. He reached up and touched the curls of hair that ran down Mulder's chest in a line to his belly. In a few seconds he would have to look at Mulder and he wasn't ready yet.

Mulder waited for his own breathing to normalize. He blushed as he recalled the conspiracy he'd been building around Alex. If he meant what he'd said, even a little... Despite this question, hanging in the air between them, mixed up with the scent of sex and sweat, and Alex... oh god, definitely Alex, Mulder felt contented. Alex's fingers were teasing the hair on his chest, possessively, Mulder thought. He found he could control his limbs again and wrapped his arms around Alex, to convey some of what he felt. He heard himself say, "I love you too," and didn't know if he'd intended to think that or say it out loud. It didn't matter anymore. He wished he could just fall asleep, with this man in his arms. But Alex began to move against him, pulling himself upward, to lean on his elbow.

Alex looked at Mulder, and he suspected his own eyes were wide and red-rimmed. He wasn't at his prettiest when he cried, but he'd lost all control of complex things like his tears. In those last few moments before he came, he'd been trying to decide if he'd had any of this in mind when he came to Mulder's apartment. Was he subconsciously planning this? Did he fool himself into thinking he wanted to die, when he only wanted this little death with Mulder's body close to his? He didn't think so, but his own motives were often beyond him, and he was used to letting the moment carry him, trusting his instincts to protect him. They usually did, but he didn't know if they had this night. He examined Mulder's face for regrets, saw none, and kissed his warm mouth. If this was a mistake, he had two weeks with Mulder to himself to correct it. He sighed, happy for the moment, knowing that weeks were made up of such moments. At any time, Mulder might be carried away from him, as Samantha was carried away from Mulder, but he had him, now. And there might be a future for them. He wanted to, needed to believe that.


End file.
